Our hands, all both
healthy and lame, rose up to the heavens,
Rising only to the end of
our fingertips.
We are limited.
We are not to be hailed.

Death in the Jungle
Cries that were heard by only the wind.
Sounds from a voice heard only by the trees.
Louder and louder it bellowed until finally thin.
But the louder or thinner it flew, the less the power of the
carrying knees.
Caught in a forest, maybe forever, walking in a wonderland of nature.
Caught behind the beauty of deadly beast and sober weeds.
Screaming to the skies and looking into the mind, finding it
naturally immature.
Captured by the mist and the grass and the wind and the
antagonizing fleas.
Forever to roam in a deep, lonely forest.
Forever doomed to explore, to implore and to live in a deep
lonely forest. |